


let me name the stars for you

by permets (malreves)



Series: these, our bodies, possessed by light [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, as always, gratuitous usage of siken
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-21 17:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18706648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malreves/pseuds/permets
Summary: Tim wakes up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all poetry/title/bio from the collection Crush by Richard Siken
> 
> sorry this took so long lmao

_ He had green eyes,  _ __  
_ so I wanted to sleep with him– _ __  
_ green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool– _ _  
_ __ You could drown in those eyes, I said. 

The first time Tim sees Jason without the domino, his breath catches at the vivid green staring back at him. 

Green eyes, flecked with gold, bright and hard. They watch him from the other end of the rooftop they shared, wary and uncomfortable. They've been dancing around this for ages now; flirtations that come off as sniping, anger that seems only to shimmer on the surface, never quite penetrating the words beneath it. Jason has been pulling his punches– Tim can tell– trying to tell Tim that they’re okay, in his own fucked up way. He’s been itching for fights less, content to verbally spar rather than leave his mark on Tim in a way that’s more visible. 

Tim shivers at the thought. 

“Replacement,” Jason greets, as Tim lopes over to him, cape fluttering in the early fall breeze that flits across the rooftop. 

“Tim,” Tim reminds him, quietly. 

“’S what I said,” Jason responds, shit eating grin sliding in place. Tim just rolls his eyes as he slides off his cowl and shakes his hair out. 

If Tim sits a little closer to Jason than usual, neither of them says anything. They’re close enough to touch ( _ maybe in another life,  _ Tim thinks _ , maybe later in this one, even _ ), but their gloved hands remain centimeters apart, never quite bridging the distance. 


	2. Chapter 2

_ I wanted to take him home  _ _   
_ _ and rough him up _

They’ve done this before; hands beneath shirts, biting kisses in the dark. They’ve existed violently on the fringes of the shadows that drape across Jason’s room (Tim’s not even sure he’s ever seen it properly, not in the light at least). They touch in the time just before morning, before dawn spills over the window sill and shatters the illusion of reticence they’re playing at. 

Jason’s hands linger, his fingertips all at once dug in deep enough to bruise the pale skin around Tim’s ribs, but in a second, light enough to almost feel like a caress. Tim tucks his face into the juncture between Jason’s neck and shoulder and sucks a bruise on to his skin. Jason digs his blunt nails into Tim’s skin and Tim hisses out a breath against Jason’s shoulder, before sucking on his teeth and returning to the rapidly bruising skin with renewed force. 

They’ve done this before; hiding in the edges of sleep, before tomorrow sets in. Carefully constructing a space wherein they can exist, separate from everyone else, from themselves even. 

Afterwards, when Tim is grappling for his suit in the dark, Jason catches Tim’s wrist with his larger, calloused hand. His fingers entrap Tim, and with one simple tug, Tim topples back into bed. The first slip of dawn is bleeding over the horizon as Jason fits himself snug against Tim’s back, arm curled loosely around his scarred abdomen. 

This, they’ve never quite done before. 


	3. Chapter 3

_ And he knew it wasn’t going to be okay, and he told me  _ _   
_ _ it wasn’t going to be okay.  _

Jason doesn’t hope, doesn’t dare give himself the luxury. Doesn’t sit beside Tim’s bed every night, once they had transported him back to his old room in the Manor. He doesn’t wait to see the reports, the daily updates that Alfred gives Stephanie and Dick, Babs and Cass. Isn’t there to hold Tim’s barely warm hand as he lies limp and comatose on a bed that nearly swallows him whole. He doesn’t hold out faith that Tim was coming back from the state Jason had found him in. That there would be something to come back to. 

He vacuums the apartment, polishes and repolishes all their equipment. Fixes tears in their suits, does load upon load of forgotten laundry. Cleans the kitchen and restocks the fridge and pantry with their favourites until the cupboards are almost bursting. It wasn’t until three days in, when the smell of steeping coffee in their kitchen sends him into a fit of hysterics that left shards of glass and wet coffee grounds embedded in his palm that anyone really takes the time to notice how Jason is handling all of it. 

(Jason buys Tim a new French Press, nicer than the last, and promises every deity he’s ever heard of that if Tim just wakes up, he’ll buy a whole espresso machine for their kitchen. Months later, it’s still gathering dust on the corner of the counter where he first placed it). 


	4. Chapter 4

_ I said kiss me here and here and here _ _   
_ _ and you did.  _

The first time, it’s just after midnight. Jason’s leaning against the stairwell on a rooftop that Tim has visited enough times for it to feel familiar. The air hovering on the edge of warm, and it’s quiet. There’s not much gravel left on the ground after the sheer number of fights that have been had in the vicinity, and Tim’s shoes are very nearly silent as he makes his way towards Jason’s still figure. 

“I know you’re there,” Jason mutters, mouth barely moving. His mask is off, and he has it leaning against his boots on the ground. The domino is still there, his eyes closed underneath it, and the light catches against the red that frames Jason’s face. Tim can’t quite see any guns on his person, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there; Jason’s just getting better at hiding them. His hands are gloveless where they sit, hanging on to belt loops, and Tim drinks in the sight of him, bits of skin exposed where he can’t afford them to be, stirring something in Tim’s chest that reminds him faintly of trust. 

Tim grins in response, still riding the adrenaline rush of two back-to-back fights already hanging in the night air, and leans his weight just a few inches shy of Jason against the wall. He can hear Jason breathing, slow and measured, and it does nothing to calm his own erratic heartbeat; it actively worsens it. 

“Quit it,” Jason replies, to Tim’s silence. He turns, shoulder pressed up against the wall, to face Tim. Tim steadies himself with a deep breath that he desperately hopes Jason doesn’t notice, and tries to loosen his posture. The air between them is thick with expectancy, and Tim feels as though he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. 

“I’m not doing anything.” Tim replies, grin beginning to fade. 

Jason bites his lip and Tim’s eyes immediately dart down to watch the movement. There’s a moment where neither of them speak, where Jason simply watches Tim watching him. Tim’s eyes on him almost feel like too much, but not enough at the same time. 

“Can I help you?” Jason asks, grin barely being held back by his teeth. 

“Maybe,” Tim says. He doesn’t dare move, worried that something,  _ anything _ might shatter the air between them and spook Jason away. It’s taken them a while to get here, months of half greetings and awkward run-ins. Barely there flirting over the comm system that drove Stephanie nuts (Tim is almost certain there’s a betting pool about when they get their shit together and admit feelings, but he doesn’t know exactly who’s in on it). They’ve been skirting the idea of affection for a while now, hidden beneath innuendo and slightly longer than acceptable touches during sparring sessions, and Tim is very nearly bursting from it. The night air is warm enough that it feels almost smothering; Tim’s breaths are short and tinged with anticipation. 

Jason leans forward, the crunch of his jacket scraping against the brick of the wall the only noise between them, and Tim could live in this very moment forever. 

Jason’s ungloved hand comes up to cup the line of Tim’s jaw, and it takes every inch of him not to tense in response. The calluses of Jason’s palm rub against the smooth skin of Tim’s cheek, and Tim just barely leans into the touch; his own version of granting Jason permission. 

Tim expects Jason’s lips to be rough, chapped with how often he watches Jason chew on them, but they’re surprisingly soft and warm against Tim’s own. He feels Jason’s teeth just barely scrape his bottom lip, and can’t suppress a shiver that runs down his spine in response. He can feel rather than hear Jason chuckle in response, the sound so low that it reverberates through Tim’s chest. It’s wonderful and intoxicating and hovers on the very edge of too much, and absolutely perfect. 


	5. Chapter 5

_ You are a fever I am learning to live with _

The waiting sits like an uncomfortable itch under Jason’s skin. There’s nowhere it doesn’t follow him; though it’s rare he leaves Gotham these days. It’s been six months and while Alfred tells him Tim’s progressing more and more each day, it feels like a lie when Tim hasn’t done so much as flutter a closed eyelash. He stalks his way through Gotham’s nights with a restlessness that he hasn’t shown in years (whispers have begun that while meetings with Red Hood were known for their high mortality rate, now it was nearly impossible to make it out of a fight with him alive). 

It’s raining out tonight. The wet pattering steadily against the pavement with no sign of stopping, as Jason stalks his way through the city. There’s the gentle hum of the hot pink neon sign outside the 24-hour convenience store he’s perched above, and he can’t help but think that’s the sort of thing Tim would notice if they were out here together. That he would go all quiet, all of a sudden, and the barest idea of a smirk would curl up the left side of his lips. He’d make some offhand comment about why the neon makes such a noise, noticeable over even the patter of rain. He’d explain it in that casual way of his, brilliance and apathy warring out across the tones of his voice, charming and infuriating in a way Jason can’t quite explain but misses so much it feels like a goddamn ache in his bones. 

He hates this. The waiting, the emptiness of missing someone that feels like his ribs are broken, cracked in his chest so carelessly that there’s no way for them to be set. No way for the break to be clean, for the healing to be easy. It would be one thing if Tim was dead, gone in a way that he couldn’t, wouldn’t come back from. Gone in a way different from Jason. It would be one thing entirely. 

But he’s not. He’s lying in his old bed in the manor hooked up to more machines than Jason knew the name to when they first took him upstairs (he’s become much more familiar with the medical advances that have allowed Tim to live this long when no one’s even sure if he’s capable of breathing without the tube down his throat). He’s lying in his old bed, not quite living but not dead either, and there’s nothing Jason can do about it. So he’s here, in the rain, beating up assholes trying to sell shit to kids instead of their regular clientele. He’s here, in the rain, missing Tim so much that it feels like if he says the right thing he could just turn around, and Tim would be standing right there, grin in place, wondering if Jason was done having his internal pity party. 

It aches worse than the pit ever did. 

The gentle buzzing from the right side of his helmet catches his attention and Jason, somewhat dramatically, sighs as he answers an incoming call from Dick. Dick is on TimWatch (coined by Steph in a rare moment of humor in the past few months), and Jason assumes he’s calling because he’s bored, no noticeable change in Tim in the past few months. 

“What’s up, Dickie?” Jason asks, voice wan and lacklustre. 

“Jay,” Dick’s voice sounds strained, choked almost. Jason’s posture shifts immediately. 

“Dick what happened.” It’s not a question, and in that minute, Jason is up and moving, fast as he can to where he has parked his bike a few blocks away. 

Something like nervous laughter bubbles up through Dick’s lips. 

“Come home, Jaybird,” is all he responds before dropping the line, and Jason snarls out a line of insults so harsh that it’s a small blessing the microphone on the helmet is turned off as he races back to his bike. 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter](http://twitter.com/virquo)


End file.
